User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 29
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Twenty-Nine 1 January 1964 For a moment, the world swam, grey and swampy, in front of Alastor’s eyes. He’d considered the possibility that Minerva had killed Macnair—he couldn’t not, Auror that he was—but he’d never believed it. Not in his heart, which, coincidentally, seemed to be the organ that had taken the blow a moment ago. “You killed him?” he asked, rendered temporarily gormless in his shock. It was far from the first time he’d heard this kind of confession before, but his brain seemed stuck, and his mouth unable to do anything but repeat her words. “It wasn’t what I intended, but I did it nevertheless,” she said, and he recognised by the calm she projected and that others might find strange—but not a seasoned Auror—that the confession was true. Most criminals were glad, at least on some level, when the truth was finally out there. At least until the real fun started in Azkaban. It was this last thought that shook Alastor out of his stupor. “Minerva,” he said, “I don’t want you to say any more. Not right now. I’m … it’s … I’m an Auror. You should be talking to someone who can advise you of your interests.” “Who better than you, Alastor? You love me—or at least, you did—and you understand the law.” “Minerva, I don’t—” “I want you to be the one to hear it, Alastor. Please.” This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. If he took her confession, he had to report it. His oath required it. He’d never broken his oath—never even considered it—but how could he do it? How could he turn her in when he loved her so? Back in 1942, when he had been in his final year of Auror training, he’d needed a way to blow off the steam that built up during that year of nearly unbearable pressure, and he’d found it in a most unlikely place: the Muggle cinema. And his favourites were the American detective pictures. He’d been to see The Maltese Falcon four times, sitting in the dark theatre, surrounded by Muggles, mesmerised by Humphrey Bogart’s sad sack gumshoe, flawed, but ultimately incorruptible and hard as dragon’s stones, an image that Alastor had, consciously or not, cultivated for himself. The final scene of the picture now came back to him: Bogart in hardcase mode, telling Mary Astor: “Maybe I’ll have some rotten nights after I’ve sent you over, but that’ll pass.” At the time, Alastor’s heart had swelled at the line, at the rightness—the righteousness—of it. Of course Bogart was going to turn her in. Of course it was the right thing to do. Only a patsy would let a dame get away with murder. Now, he cringed inwardly at how easy it had seemed to him back then, sitting in the dark, with the notion of sending the woman one loved to prison nothing more than a titillating and abstract idea. Suddenly, he wanted to hex Humphrey Bogart’s bollocks off. He heard himself say, “All right. Tell me about it.” “I’m not sure I can talk about it. But I can show you.” “Show me?” “Yes. In Albus’s Pensieve.” “Albus has a Pensieve?” “Yes.” Alastor was surprised enough by this news to forget his troubles for just a moment. Pensieves were incredibly rare and valuable; as far as Alastor knew, there were only six, maybe seven, known to exist. Even the Ministry had never been able to get hold of one, as families that had them tended to hold on to them. Alastor wondered how Dumbledore had come by his. Minerva said, “But please, Alastor, keep that to yourself. If the Ministry gets wind of it, they’ll want it.” No doubt they would. A Pensieve would be really useful for interrogation and for interviewing witnesses to crimes. Alastor wondered why Dumbledore didn’t want the Ministry to have one. Alastor’s attention snapped back to the problem at hand. “Minerva, are you certain you want to do this? To bring Dumbledore into it?” She said, “He knows this much”—she tapped the report cover—“I think I’d like him to know the rest.” “All right.” They left the flat and Apparated to the front gates of Hogwarts. Albus was in his office, but they had to wait while he finished his meeting, the gargoyle informed them. Alastor and Minerva stood at the entryway in silence, and when the doors rumbled open to emit a blonde wizard in ornate robes, Alastor tensed as the man stopped to acknowledge Minerva. “Professor McGonagall, it’s always a pleasure,” the man said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Mr Malfoy,” she returned. “I didn’t know you were coming to Hogwarts today, or I’d have arranged for tea.” Alastor marvelled at her poise. He didn’t think he could manage to put two coherent words together. Then again, she’d had seven years living with this knowledge; for Alastor it was still new and raw. Seven years of playing everyone for saps. You’re good at it now, angel. It was Bogart’s voice Alastor heard in his head. Shut up, Alastor told it. “No matter, dear lady,” Malfoy said with an oily smile. “I just had a bit of urgent business to take up with the headmaster.” “Perhaps next time, then,” Minerva said. “Without fail,” Malfoy said, and swept away without a glance at Alastor. Dumbledore appeared on the spiral staircase a moment later, saying, “Come up, come up. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but Abraxas and I were nearly finished.” To his credit, when they got to his office, the headmaster didn’t play dumb. Seeing the red folder in Alastor’s hand, he said to Minerva, “I imagine you’re terribly angry with us.” “No,” she said. “I’m not angry. Alastor and I have talked about what’s in the report. I’ve already explained to Alastor about Petrus Berquier, and I’d like you to know the truth too.” Dumbledore looked from her to Alastor, and Alastor had to turn his eyes away. “If that is what you truly want, Minerva,” he said. Minerva told him, “What you read in the report was true. Petrus Berquier was my lover. What isn’t in there is the fact that I did it for the money he gave me. What also isn’t in there is what happened to Gerald. I’d like to show you … both of you. May we use your Pensieve?” Alastor had to give the old wizard credit. He betrayed no reaction to Minerva’s statement other than to say, “Of course.” He crossed the room to what Alastor thought was a small table covered with a blue velvet cloth. When Dumbledore removed the cloth, the table turned out to be a stone pedestal with a concave surface. He then opened one of the mahogany cabinets that flanked the pedestal and withdrew a large stone basin, carved around the rim with what Alastor knew to be Runes. Despite everything that was happening, Alastor felt a frisson of excitement when he saw the Pensieve. He’d never seen one before and likely never would again. It looked very old, but of course, Alastor had no real way to judge its age. Dumbledore placed the Pensieve on the pedestal and drew his wand. Waving it in a complicated pattern over the Pensieve, he chanted, “Accipe memoriam, mutate memoriam incarnata, aperi memoriam!” Curious, Alastor approached the Pensieve and saw the surface begin to shimmer with a pale-gold light, as if it held a candle somehow suspended in water. “The Pensieve is ready to receive the memory,” Dumbledore said, turning to Minerva, who was still standing near the door. She hesitated just a moment, then crossed to join the two wizards at the Pensieve. She withdrew her wand and closed her eyes for a few moments. Putting the tip to her temple, she opened her eyes, and Alastor could tell she was looking deep within herself, into the past, rather than at anything in the room with them now. As she moved her wand, a thin, silvery strand of vapour began to stretch between the wand and her head. It drew itself out, thinning, then thickening again, until it formed a ribbon about an inch thick and maybe twenty-four inches long. The ribbon seemed to pulse as if it were a living thing. Minerva opened her eyes and looked questioningly at Dumbledore, who nodded. She gave her wand a slight twitch, and the memory-strand came away from her temple. Pointing the wand toward the Pensieve, she intoned, “Loquere, memoria!” The surface of the Pensieve rippled and began to swirl, and a moment later, the memory-strand was sucked into the vortex. Dumbledore gave the contents of the Pensieve a swirl with his wand, and the gold glow dissipated, leaving a nearly translucent green shimmer at its surface. Alastor thought he could see shapes through it, but he couldn’t make out what they were. “The memory is ready,” Dumbledore said. “Minerva, are you certain you wish to do this?” “Quite certain.” “Very well,” he said. “Alastor, this will be easier if you take my hand.” Alastor did, and when Dumbledore bent down to touch his face to the surface of the Pensieve, Alastor followed suit. He felt himself falling forward, but Dumbledore’s firm hand over his kept him from shouting or flailing about. After a few seconds, he felt the firmness of the ground beneath his feet, and when he opened his eyes, they were standing in a small room illuminated by the light shining in from a large, half-glazed window set in the wall behind them, although Alastor noticed that he and Dumbledore cast no shadows. Sitting behind a small, many-drawered desk, quill in hand, was Minerva. Her head was bowed low over her work, but after a moment, she looked up at a noise from outside the room, and Alastor peered at her. Although this Minerva was more than seven years younger than the Minerva Alastor knew, she looked a decade older. Her face was drawn, the skin taut and pale as the moon, but without a trace of its luminosity. Her mouth was set in a thin line that Alastor recognised, but this Minerva’s eyes, ringed with dark purple shadows, held no happiness to soften her grim expression. Her cheekbones were so prominent that she looked nearly skeletal, and when Alastor’s eyes travelled lower, he saw that her collarbones jutted out like handles. Her gown gaped a little in front, and he caught a glimpse of the shadow of her ribs under its edge, making his heart ache. She was so thin! The door opened, and a man who could only be Gerald Macnair stood in the doorway, leaning too casually against its frame. “Going over the accounts, Minerva?” he said. The elided “t” in “accounts” told Alastor that he’d had more than a little to drink. “Yes,” Minerva said. “I’ll be finished in a few minutes.” “Then you’ll be going out.” “Yes.” “To visit your friend … what’s her name again?” “Madame Plançon.” “Right, Madame Plançon.” Minerva bent her head over her parchment again, but Macnair still stood there staring at her. He said, “She’s still unwell?” “That’s right,” Minerva said without looking up. “Elgar can make you some lunch when he’s back from the market. We didn’t expect you home so soon, or I’m sure he would have left something for you.” There was a pause, and Minerva put down her quill and looked at Macnair. “Or I could get something together for you now, if you’re hungry,” she said, standing. “That’s very kind of you, Minerva. Very … wife-like.” Minerva stood looking at Macnair for a moment, and Alastor had the feeling she was preparing herself for what was to come. “I’ll just see to it, then …” she said, moving out from behind the desk. Macnair stepped in front of her, blocking her way, saying, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Alastor was impressed with the way she looked him right in the face as she asked, “Find out what?” “About you and that Berquier bastard.” Minerva said nothing, nor did she attempt to leave the room. It was almost as if she were resigned to what was obviously going to happen, and Alastor wanted to shout at her to go, to run, before it was too late. Macnair was saying, “I’m curious, Minerva, how did you manage it? With the Trace? A Ministry owl can cross the Channel in a matter of hours; I should have got word the same day you first let him stick his cock in you.” Minerva’s reddening face was the only indication that she was upset. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and quiet. “I managed it exactly the same way you did, Gerald. Or rather, the way your father managed it for you. A few Galleons in the right hands, and the charm fails, doesn’t it? That trick isn’t supposed to work for witches, I know, but lo and behold, our gold is just as yellow as wizards’.” Alastor recognised that her even tone, combined with the mocking words, was meant to wrong-foot Macnair, and it worked just as Alastor, the seasoned interrogator, knew it would. Macnair was practically spitting. “You spent our money on bribes so you could fuck that … that—” “Our money, Gerald? No, I didn’t spend our money. I spent my money. Your money was gone years ago. And there’s never been any us, so there’s never been any ours, wouldn’t you agree?” “You fucking cunt.” “As you say,” she said. “Now if you’ll get out of my road, I’ll get out of yours.” She stepped to the side and around Macnair, who seemed too stunned to move, and for a moment, Alastor thought she’d pulled it off. But just as she reached the doorway, Macnair grabbed her by the arm and swung her back around, and in a move that surprised Alastor with its almost balletic grace, he backhanded her in the face, his fist closed and cruel in its accuracy despite the man’s inebriation. Alastor shouted and surged forward, trying to get to Macnair, but the hands he attempted to lay on the bastard passed straight through, and the Petrificus Totalus he’d fired simultaneously from his hip streaked through his target and dissipated in faint-blue shards of light. “Alastor!” said Albus. “Stop it. You can’t help her.” Dumbledore was right, of course, so Alastor fell in back beside him, breathing heavily, murder in his heart. Minerva had her hand to her face, and blood was beginning to spill out from between her fingers. When she moved her hand away from her face, Alastor could see that her nose was badly broken; it was canted oddly to the left like in one of those daft paintings they’d seen together at the Louvre. “I wonder if the chevalier will want you now that I’ve reorganised your face. Shall we go ask him?” Macnair said, grasping her arm again. She pulled away, but he took her shoulders between both hands and began to shake her, and Alastor remembered doing the same thing only an hour or so ago, when she had become nearly hysterical. He thought he might vomit. He watched Minerva’s hand creep down toward her hip, and he knew she was going for her wand. A moment later, Macnair was thrown backwards and hit the wall with an almost comical “Ooof!” A grin crossed his face, and for a second, Alastor could see the handsome young man he must have been before indolence had rendered him pudgy and drink had painted gin blossoms across his cheeks. Macnair said, “Nice work, Minerva. Are you going to Petrify me like you did my father? You know, I believed you then. My father said you were a whore, but I said, ‘no,’ and I let you and your father turn me against my family. I should have listened to my dad.” He started to get up, and Minerva brandished her wand at him, one hand again at her ruined nose. She sounded as if she were speaking through cotton when she said, “Don’t move.” Once on his feet, Macnair put his hands up in surrender, the incongruous smile still plastered on his face. “I’m not going to do anything else to you, Minerva. So put your wand down and run off to your lover. Let him pay for the Healer to fix your face for you.” When she hesitated, he continued, “But when you come back, I will be gone. And so will Malcolm. I’ll take him from school, and you’ll never see him again.” She said, “I won’t let you do that.” But the way her angry flush suddenly drained away told Alastor that Macnair’s threat had hit the mark. “How are you going to stop me? I’m his father; the law says I have every right to take my son wherever I see fit, even if his mother doesn’t like it.” “No, you have no right.” “I do, and you know it. The father almost always gets preference. And once everyone finds out what a whore you are, what do you think your chances of getting him back are?” “He isn’t your son.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “Malcolm isn’t your son, Gerald. There’s no part of you in him, thank the gods.” Macnair blinked stupidly a few times. “You’re lying,” he said. “I’m not. I was already pregnant when we married. Gods, but you are thick! Did you really think a baby born more than a month before time would be fat and healthy as Malcolm was? Or that any son of yours would grow to be so tall at only eleven years old? Or be even half-competent at magic?” It took a moment for this to sink in, but once understanding dawned on Macnair’s face, it was suffused with red fury. He howled, “You bitch!” as he lunged at Minerva, who stepped out of the way just before he could tackle her. He fell into a heap at her feet, but before she could get away, he threw his arms around her legs, pulling her to the ground next to him, sending her wand flying from her hand to clatter to the floor near the desk. She kicked at him as he clawed his way up her legs, tearing her skirt. He threw himself on top of her, pinning her to the floor, and closed his hands around her throat, roaring in incoherent rage. Then there was a muffled pop, and Minerva disappeared. Alastor heard a hissing sound and saw Macnair roll over, clawing at his face, which now wore what looked to be a grey, fur-covered mask. The cat—for that’s what it was—gave an ear-splitting screech and launched herself off of Macnair and scrabbled across the floor to the desk, where she changed back into Minerva. Her voice was only a raspy whisper as she said, “Accio wand!” Macnair had risen to his feet, dabbing at the bloody stripes crisscrossing his face, when she said, “Don’t come any closer. Let me pass.” Macnair stood his ground and said, “Don’t worry, Minerva. I wouldn’t touch you again if you were Helen of fucking Troy. But I will take your son. By the time you get through the paperwork to have him declared a bastard, where do you think we’ll be?” The two stood staring at one another for a few moments, and Alastor watched Macnair’s eyes, wondering if he was going to attack Minerva again. Then there was a flash of white light and a whoosh, and Macnair was gone. Where’s the body? Alastor looked to Minerva, who was staring at the spot where Macnair had stood, her wand still outstretched. He followed her eyes to the floor, where there was a large brown rat shivering and twisting this way and that as if trying to figure out just why he was being followed by a tail. The rat froze, then gave a squeak and scurried out the open door. Minerva lowered her wand and, leaning against the desk, sank slowly to the floor. She was still staring at the spot where the rat had been, her eyes hollow and unblinking. The room blurred and greyed out for a few moments, then cleared again, and Alastor could tell it was later in the day, because the light coming from the window had stretched out, throwing the desk into long shadow. Minerva still sat trembling on the floor. A voice from the doorway said, “Mistress?” Alastor turned and saw Elgar, his oversized eyes dark with concern. He hurried to Minerva and took her face between his hands, and Alastor felt relief wash over him as if the elf’s tender hands were cradling his injured face rather than hers. Elgar seemed to understand that Minerva was in shock, for he spoke softly and slowly, despite his obvious agitation. “Mistress, you is hurt. Can you tell Elgar if it is just your face and neck, or is there other injuries?” Minerva’s eyes regained some of their life at the sound of Elgar’s voice. She seemed to focus and looked at the elf’s face. “Just my nose, I think,” she whispered. “And this …” her hands fluttered to her throat, the skin of which was marred by ugly purple bruises where Macnair’s fingers had pressed hard into the pale flesh. “Elgar will try to fix it, with Mistress’ permission.” “Yes,” she said. Elgar passed his fingers gently over the bruises, and they faded, leaving only a slight lividity where they’d been. When Elgar placed the tips of his fingers on her damaged nose, Minerva flinched and drew in a hissing breath. “Elgar is sorry, Mistress. This may hurt a bit, but you must keep still.” There was a crunching sound, and Minerva howled in pain, making Alastor’s balls creep up into his abdominal cavity. He’d broken his nose on several occasions (before losing a large chunk of it, that is), and he well remembered how much it hurt to have it fixed. Elgar was dabbing at the fresh blood that was running from Minerva’s nose—straighter now, but still noticeably misshapen—saying, “There now, does that feel any better, Mistress?” “Yes, thank you, Elgar.” Her voice was closer to normal now, although it was still weak and papery. “You will need to have a Healer finish fixing your nose, Mistress. Elgar did what he could, but—” “It’s fine, Elgar. It feels much better now.” “Who has harmed you, Mistress?” Elgar asked, allowing his distress to come through now that he had seen to his mistress’ most immediate needs. “Master Gerald.” It was then that Alastor discovered that house-elves had blue blood, because Elgar, in his fury, turned a dusky shade that Alastor had never seen before. “Is he gone? Elgar will help you ward the house against him so he cannot come back.” “No. There’s no need. But Elgar …” “Yes, Mistress?” “Will you search around the house to see if you can find a brown rat?” “A rat, Mistress?” “Yes.” Elgar was silent for a few moments, then he said, “And what does Mistress wish me to do with this rat if I finds him?” “Just … put him in a box. Keep him safe. Under no circumstances should you harm him.” “Very good, Mistress,” Elgar said. “I will look for this … rat. But first, Elgar would like to help Mistress to her bed.” Minerva got to her feet, saying, “No, that isn’t necessary, Elgar. But I have to send an urgent message to someone. Perhaps you could deliver it, then come back and search for the rat?” “Of course, Mistress.” Minerva went behind the desk and opened a drawer, removing a small sheet of parchment. She took a quill and wrote a few lines on the parchment, then sealed it. Handing it to Elgar, she said, “Please deliver this to the Chevalier Berquier at 76 Rue d’Artois. If he asks, tell him I have been unavoidably detained and that he shouldn’t expect me today. The note gives my apologies. There will be no reply, so you may come straight back.” “Very good, Mistress.” Elgar took the note and popped out. The room greyed out again, and Alastor felt himself being pulled upwards as if falling in reverse. When he felt his feet on Dumbledore’s floor again, he ran his hands roughly over his face to try to clear his head. Minerva was standing halfway across the room, looking at him. “We never found Gerald,” she said. “And now you know about me. Both of you.” Alastor glanced at Dumbledore beside him. He was regarding Minerva with a look that Alastor couldn’t quite read. Alastor expected him to say something, but he remained silent. So Alastor said, “You didn’t kill him, Minerva.” “I Transfigured him. Which amounts to the same thing,” she answered. “Not necessarily,” Alastor said. Damn you, Dumbledore, help me here! “Really? And how long do you suppose a house-bred rat would last in the gutters of Paris?” she asked. “Aye, but he wasn’t just a rat. He still had his mind. If he was canny, he might’ve—” “Did Gerald Macnair strike you as a canny sort of man, Alastor?” There was no edge to her voice now, just resignation, and it frightened him. “No,” he said. “He didn’t strike me as much of a man at all, so his becoming a rat wasn’t any great loss.” “Alastor,” Dumbledore interjected, “this is no joking matter.” “It was no joke, Dumbledore,” Alastor said. Crossing to Minerva, he said, “You didn’t kill him. You could have, but you didn’t. He was threatening you. Christ, he’d already broken your nose, he—” “I could have Petrified him instead. Petrified him, then left. He’d still be alive.” “Maybe. Maybe not. How long d’ye reckon he’d have stayed ahead of his creditors without you paying them off?” “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Well, I do,” Alastor said. “I’ve seen it a dozen times, Minerva. The kind of men Macnair owed money to … they’d have killed him eventually. But chances are, they’d have hurt you first. You and Malcolm. To try to get him to pay.” Alastor wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to convince, Minerva or himself. But what he’d said was true. “That’s not what I was thinking when I did it,” Minerva said. “What were you thinking?” Alastor asked. “I was thinking about Malcolm. And about Gerald taking him away from me.” She suddenly buried her face in her hands and gave a great, shuddering sob, a sound he’d never heard from her before, even on the one occasion when he’d seen her weep. He put his arms around her and held her, and in that moment he knew he would not turn her in to the Ministry. Whatever she’d done, she’d paid for it. And her crime wasn’t so great, he reasoned. Yes, Transfiguring someone without their permission was a serious offence, as was filing a false report, but, by the gods, Macnair had had far worse coming to him, and what the hell else was she supposed to do? She had her boy to protect. And she hadn’t killed Macnair, had she? She could have, but she didn’t. Hell, she didn’t even intend to Transfigure him, probably. It just … happened. Transfiguration was what she did best, so it was only natural that she’d used it under stress rather than another spell. And if the bastard had had the sense to stay, she certainly would have Transfigured him back. Alastor told himself all these quite reasonable things as he held her, but a tiny part of him was still speaking in Bogart’s voice, telling him they were just excuses for letting her get away with it, and excuses were for patsies and saps. He shut the voice up by thinking about Malcolm. Malcolm Macnair who wasn’t, in fact, Malcolm Macnair, if what Minerva had said in the memory was accurate and not just calculated to trip Macnair up. Alastor thought she’d been telling Macnair the truth. After she’d calmed, he asked, “Minerva … was it true, what you told him? About Malcolm?” She looked up into his face and he forced himself not to look away. “Yes,” she said. “He was not Malcolm’s father.” “I see,” Alastor said. “Do you?” “Yeah,” Alastor said, nodding slowly. “I think I do. You got pregnant just before marrying him, and my guess is you did it on purpose. You’re too canny to be that careless. You didn’t want Macnair’s children. That’s not hard to understand.” Alastor found that he wasn’t especially shocked by this revelation. He’d had twitches of intuition that something about Malcolm wasn’t as it seemed, and he supposed he’d wondered before now if maybe Macnair wasn’t the boy’s da. It hadn’t been a conscious thought, but it had been there, maybe, somewhere deeper, in that place in Alastor’s mind where he stashed those niggling sorts of ideas that might distract him from whatever question was at hand, but that he sensed might be important. That place was essential to Alastor’s success as an Auror; the thoughts he stored there had often proved to be the key that unlocked an investigation. His fellow Aurors ragged him about it sometimes, how he’d suddenly get a “hunch” that turned out to be spot on. But with Malcolm … he had just left it on the shelf. Now he wished he’d done the same with his bloody itchy thoughts about Macnair’s disappearance. But it was too late for those kinds of regrets now, and he might as well have all of it. “Will you tell me …” Alastor cursed himself for his reluctance to ask his question, but he finally said, “Will you tell me who Malcolm’s father was?” He saw her glance at Dumbledore. Dumbledore knows who he is, Alastor thought with surprise. Did he organise it? A disturbing thought, but Alastor wouldn’t put it past the man. When he saw Dumbledore nod his head briefly at her, though, then the truth struck him with the force of a curse. “It was you!” he cried at the older wizard before he could stop himself. “Yes,” Dumbledore said. “Jaysus,” Alastor muttered to himself. Somehow, this felt worse to him, or almost worse, than the discovery that Minerva had Transfigured her husband into a rat. “I’m sorry, Alastor,” Minerva said. “You owe me no apology, Minerva.” She didn’t, it was true; they’d not even known one another back then, but why did he feel so goddamned angry? You’re not angry, boyo, you’re scared. And jealous, which is the same thing. He’s the great Albus Dumbledore, and he shagged your girl. Who wouldn’t be jealous? “I mean I’m sorry for not telling you,” Minerva said. “I told no one. Even Albus didn’t know until recently.” “But you were lovers?” he asked. He wanted it full in the face (when you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it, Bogart was telling him), but what he got wasn’t quite what he expected. “No,” Minerva said “Not exactly. I tricked Albus into sleeping with me.” “Come again?” Alastor said, wondering with dread if she was now going to reveal that she had Imperiused Dumbledore and forced him to impregnate her. Would that even work? Alastor saw her questioning look at Dumbledore and his slight nod. Then she told him a tale that was at once shocking and banal. Alastor was relieved to know it had been nothing more than a lie and a bit of potion work behind Malcolm’s conception, but he was astounded that this woman he thought he knew had been so devious at eighteen. By the gods, it had taken some stones for her to dupe Albus Dumbledore like that! And him! What the hell had the man been thinking? Or had he been doing his thinking with his cock? That wouldn’t have surprised Alastor had it been almost anyone else, but one, this was Albus fecking Dumbledore they were talking about, and two, Alastor’d always heard that the man liked wizards. Rumours only, but still … Alastor had found during his career that most rumours carried a bit of the truth with them. He wasn’t about to question Dumbledore, though. Leastways, not today. So he asked the other question that had occurred to him as he’d listened to Minerva’s tale. “Does Malcolm know?” “No,” Minerva said. “Are you going to tell him?” “I don’t know,” said Minerva. “You should,” Alastor said. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll need to think about it.” There were a few moments in which everyone was silent, waiting for someone else to make the next move. Minerva broke the stalemate by asking, “What are you going to do, Alastor?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, do you want me to go with you to the Ministry? Give them my confession? I will, if that’s what you want.” “No. That’s not what I want.” “What do you want, Alastor?” I want things to go back to the way they were before. I want to get down on my knees and ask you to be my wife. I want to go to Diagon Alley and blow a year’s worth of my salary and yours on a pair of rings. I want … “To love you, Minerva. That’s all.” “You … you still want me? After everything you’ve found out? Can you live with it?” Alastor looked at Dumbledore, whose face was still impassive, those damnably blue eyes drilling into Alastor. Turning back to Minerva, Alastor said, “Yes.” He was reasonably sure it was the truth. ← Back to Chapter 28 On to Chapter 30→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A